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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25688119">Heatwave</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkbluebox/pseuds/darkbluebox'>darkbluebox</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>AFTG Summer Prompts [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All For The Game - Nora Sakavic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Andrew POV, Fluff, Heatwave, M/M, Makeouts, PDA, Slice of Life, aftgsummer, exploring boundaries &amp; intimacy, neil threatening to climb inside a fridge, prompt: hot day</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:34:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,522</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25688119</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkbluebox/pseuds/darkbluebox</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s hot,” Neil says. He shakes the air con so hard the screws rattle, and when that fails to achieve the desired response, he smacks it. “It’s too damn hot. Come on”</p>
<p>Andrew and Neil handle the heatwave.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>AFTG Summer Prompts [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862743</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>262</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>AFTG Summer 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Heatwave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For the #aftgsummer event</p>
<p>Content warnings: (joking) death threats, physical affection,  partial nudity</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It’s hot,” Neil says. He shakes the air con so hard the screws rattle, and when that fails to achieve the desired response, he smacks it. “It’s too damn hot. Come <em>on</em>”</p>
<p>Andrew watches from his beanbag, which he has not moved from since he staggered into the living room hours prior. The leathery material is sticking to his back, and he can feel sweat pooling at the base of his spine, but he suspects that any attempt to leave the soft cocoon would result in half his skin being pulled off. Besides, he has no desire to move, not when Neil is putting on such an entertaining spectacle.</p>
<p>Neil doesn’t get hot and bothered often, not in the emotional sense. He had the kind of upbringing that taught him to swallow down everything from mild inconvenience to full-on catastrophe, so the rare occasions when he <em>does </em>indulge in petty irritations are a sight to behold. He’s still, against all logic, wearing his usual shitty jorts and long-sleeved shirt, pacing around the dorm like a tiger in a cage. Andrew has heard of studies on the correlation between weather, mood and behaviour – snow, for instance, was supposedly a hair-trigger for certain types of meltdown, while riots and revolutions were more likely to occur during heatwaves. Andrew can believe that; Neil seems to be only a few degrees short of storming the pentagon. With the pavements outside turning to steaming slabs of suntrap tar, running outdoors is no longer a practical option. At least, not for any sane person. Andrew had kindly persuaded Neil to return his running shoes to their place by the door with a few creative notes about all the places he could hide Neil’s sunburned, heatstroke-ridden corpse.</p>
<p>Giving up on the temperamental air conditioner, Neil resorts to kneeling in front of the open fridge door. The expression he makes as the cool air washes over him is borderline pornographic. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck before slipping out of sight below the hem of his shirt.</p>
<p>“Juice,” says Andrew.</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>In lieu of repeating himself, he makes grabby hands at the orange juice in the fridge door until Neil gets the point. Instead of hunting for a glass, he tosses Andrew the entire carton. Andrew has many disparaging things to say about Neil’s intelligence, but he does have his moments.</p>
<p>After draining the carton in a minute flat, Andrew chucks the empty container at the bin, pretending not to be annoyed when he misses. Neil leans forward as though to pick it up, but as soon as he leaves the radius of the fridge he slumps as though the returning heat has drained all of the energy from his body. “I’m going insane,” he says. He stretches for the carton, accidently knocks it further away, and gives up, rolling onto his back. “Andrew,” he groans. It’s a particular kind of groan, one designed to catch Andrew’s attention, and it works. “Andrew, it’s too hot.”</p>
<p>“Do I control the weather?” Andrew replies.</p>
<p>Neil groans again, shifts, and there’s a sticky-things-becoming-unstuck kind of noise as Neil peels himself off the linoleum. “How are you still wearing black? In <em>this?</em>”</p>
<p>“You’re wearing a long-sleeved shirt.”</p>
<p>“I’m covering scars.”</p>
<p>“From who?”</p>
<p>Neil shrugs. “People might come.”</p>
<p>Andrew’s eyes flick to the door. They have been mercifully undisturbed for most of the morning, and the schedules of their roommates that he unintentionally memorised say that they should be left to themselves for the afternoon too. But only <em>should</em>.</p>
<p>Andrew pulls himself out of the beanbag. The sensation is not pleasant. “Come on.”</p>
<p>Neil blinks up at him from the floor. “Hnnn?”</p>
<p>Andrew shuts the fridge door. “<em>Move</em>.”</p>
<p>Even parked under the shade of the tree, the Maseretti is so unbearably stuffy that Andrew considers turning around and giving up then and there. Neil swears as the scorching metal clasp of the seatbelt catches his arm, and it takes a solid minute of mirror adjustments for Andrew to find angles that won’t bounce sunlight directly into his eyes. Soon, however, they are pulling onto the motorway, windows rolled down and the A/C on full blast. Neil’s complaints that the open windows will defeat the purpose of the A/C are duly ignored.</p>
<p>The house in Columbia is no cooler than the dorm, but it has curtains, and a lockable door, and privacy.</p>
<p>Neil watches quizzically as Andrew tugs the living room curtains closed. The faintest tease of a breeze toys with them, while the sunlight hammering unsuccessfully at the other side of the obnoxious turquoise fabric casts cooling blue hues across the floor. “Andrew?” he says by way of query.</p>
<p>“People won’t come here.”</p>
<p>Neil snorts. “There’s easier ways of getting me out of my clothes, you know.”</p>
<p>“That isn’t what I was trying to do.”</p>
<p>“Then what were you trying to do?”</p>
<p>“Shut you up.”</p>
<p>“There’s easier ways of doing that, too.” Neil smiles, heading towards the kitchen as he pulls his shirt over his head. A moment later, there’s a clink as the fridge door opens, followed by a sigh. “Nothing but beer.”</p>
<p>“I’ll shop.”</p>
<p>Neil agrees with a distant grunt; Andrew suspects he has been caught in the hypnotic cool of another refrigerator like a mesmerised anglerfish meal. He leaves Neil with his newfound love and returns half an hour later with most of a supermarket freezer section under his arm. He finds Neil stretched out on the couch, stripped down to his underwear and blankly watching sports commentators bicker on the television. They’re discussing baseball, which speaks volumes to the depth of Neil’s boredom.</p>
<p>Andrew allows himself a moment to take in the sweat-slick stretch of Neil’s body before the condensation seeping into his top reminds him of the soon-to-be-melted goods waiting to be stored. He returns from the kitchen with a bottle of water which he all but forces down Neil’s throat. Neil pulls himself upright as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling in that faintly surprised way of his that prompts Andrew to re-evaluate every decision which brought him to this infuriating man. Andrew leans across him to steal the remote, carefully ignoring the heat radiating off Neil’s exposed torso as he does so. The rare, scar-free stretches of skin are flushed a few shades darker than usual, and the blush spreads all the way across Neil’s chest and neck, right up into his hairline.</p>
<p>Andrew flicks the television off. “Boring.”</p>
<p>Neil huffs, but doesn’t fight him on it. They finish their drinks in silence.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to cover up either, if you don’t want to,” Neil says eventually. “I can go somewhere else if you need me to.”</p>
<p>Andrew considers the idea, turns it around and considers from another angle, weighs the pros and cons and risk and reward, and decides, <em>fine</em>. He pulls his shirt off – a thin, cotton tank which he didn’t realise was such a weight until the weight was gone – and dumps his armbands on the floor beside it. Surprise flashes across Neil’s features before he carefully moves his gaze back to the blank TV screen.</p>
<p>“Neil,” Andrew says. Neil hums, but doesn’t turn, so Andrew catches his chin and turns him to face him. “You can look.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” says Neil, and his eyes drop to Andrew’s chest. “You don’t mind?”</p>
<p>“Not today. Not with you.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Neil says, and his eyes roam carefully over the flat of Andrew’s chest, then down towards his abdomen, catching on the faint blond curls that trail downwards from his navel. His gaze is slow and studious like a scholar memorizing an ancient manuscript, admiring yet respectful. Andrew never liked being <em>looked at</em> before Neil, but perhaps it was only because no one else looked at him the way Neil did.</p>
<p>Neil keeps his hands fisted in the couch fabric as Andrew kisses him, which is as frustrating as it is endearing. Neil’s skin tastes of sweat and shitty dollar-store shower gel, and Andrew all but licks it off him.</p>
<p>Neil mutters something. Andrew pulls back. “What?”</p>
<p>“I said,” Neil says, “It’s hot.”</p>
<p>“I still don’t control the weather.”</p>
<p>“Not what I meant,” he says, and when Andrew guides his hands to the <em>yeses</em> and the <em>nos</em> of his exposed skin, Neil is quick to catch on.</p>
<p>Somewhere between the couch and the shower and the couch again, the last of the cabin-fever tension leaves Neil’s body. They chew through tubs of ice-cream, limbs splayed around each other but not quite touching - because any skin-to-skin contact outwith the allure of sex is just too damn <em>sticky - </em>and eventually the sunlight gives up on battering at the curtains as the sun collapses on the horizon.</p>
<p>“Do you have measurements for the fridge?” Neil asks vaguely.</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“I was thinking, if I removed all the shelves, I would probably fit inside.”</p>
<p>“Hmm.” Andrew drops his spoon into the empty tub. “Another potential hiding place for your corpse.”</p>
<p>“I still say there’s easier ways of shutting me up,”</p>
<p>“Perhaps,” Andrew acknowledges. Neil’s answering smile shines brighter than the sun.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Find me <a href="https://darkblueboxs.tumblr.com">on tumblr</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/darkblueboxs">and twitter.</a></p>
<p>I'll be back tomorrow for #aftgsummer day two. (Prompt: swimwear)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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